JoJo Rabbit

Or: How could you Nazi this coming?

You know you’re in for a good World War II satire when the opening credits are archival footage rabid Nazi’s heiling all over themselves but set to a German version of “I wanna hold your hand,” which defangs the proceedings and paints for us just how easy it might be to get swept up in something that is not just horrific but idiotic too. It’s the opening move of Taika Waititi (writer, director, and Fuhrer), and is a nice fish slap in the face of all things Nazi.

Loosley, loosely based on the novel Caging Skies by Christine Leunens, the movie follows Jojo Betzler (Roman Griffin Davis), a ten year old boy in the later days of the war. Filled up with Nazi propaganda he is excited to climb through the Hitler Youth under the dispirited eye of Captain Klenzendorf (Sam Rockwell), with his happy go-lucky pall Yorki (Archie Yates) and his best friend, a wacky, imaginary Adolph Hitler (Waititi). His world view is broken open by the discovery that his mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson) has hidden Elsa (Thomasin McKenzie*), a sixteen year old Jewish girl, in the walls of Joho’s dead sister’s bedroom.

It’s not quite Springtime for Hitler, but its close. Apart from some abrupt hangings and the inglorious squalor of battles we don’t get a sense of just really how bad things were in Germany. But we see how normal it was too, and that’s almost as tragic as finding bodies drifting in the town square. But itit'sot a political film (or an adaptation, thank heavens, that would have gone dark): it’s a comedy, and a comedy about how stupid fascists are. Waititi’s script sheds ridiculous off-the-cuff lines, too fast and flurrying that you’ve missed a second while you’re still gapping with shocked laughter at the first from Hitler jumping superman like out a window to this gem from Yorki on the nessity of protecting the eastern front: “I’ve heard Russians eat babies and f***k dogs, and that’s bad right? We’ve got to stop them before they eat us, and screw all our dogs!

Though undeniably of his own style (poetic tableaux of action, syncopated rhythm of awakendness amongst strangers and a hightened color of a social nightmare) Waititi’s never the less had the written and slightly shot with a dishabille Wes Andersonian vibe, but his real storytelling accomplishment is making Jojo and his world seem so childish (and how very adult children want to be). In this director and actor are in lovely tandem; Davis both adorable and despicable, full of wild plans and the helpless indignity of the young. Normally I am unimpressed with child actors (you gave a true impression of a child, good for you), but Davis truly touched me with his keenly crafted sense of a a written word and how it might land just right on film. Waititi’s Hitler starts loose goose (“People used to make fun of me all the time,” he tries to comfort Jojo after a bad episode at Hitler Youth camp, “They’d say, ‘That guy, he’s insane.’ or ‘He’s a psychopath who’s going to get us all killed.”) to a monstrous, rabid mouthed bully who’s inevitable deposition is feel good fine.

The script also keeps some powerful moments in its pocket: far to my mind is jewel beyond rubies when McKenzie (a nice balance of striking mischief and gawkishness, a winged trapped in herself as much as she is in an attic) putting a beatdown on the little Nazi turd: “My people are weak?” She hisses as she holds his neck in prime wringing position, “My people wrestled angels and killed giants! My people were chosen by G-d! Your people were chosen by a stupid little man who can’t even grow a full mustache!)

It was a pleasure to see Johansson, who as far as I’ve run across her has been serious, poe-faced warrior at arms with the world, get to become Rosie’s whimsical song-and-dance-and firesoot-beared joy as she tries to tactfully save her son from fanaticism. Rockwell (not, admittedly, my favorite but kind of hitting his stride in the reformable biggot type he’s played the last few years) does credibly as the world weir captain, attended by his close (read: very, very, very close) aide-de-camp Finkle (Alfie Allen). The sexual chemistry between the two is fantastic and the choice of Kletzendorf to go to his last stand bedazzled with eye-liner and plumes, after what could only have been a very trying decade is a surprisingly touching touch.

I wonder if Jojo Rabbit would have quite as much punch today if we didn’t have quite so many latter-day Nazi’s cluttering up the place. The rise of nationalism, in America and elsewhere, with its laughable leads and ridiculous ensemble, is a scary problem (to take a less bubbling look and fine cinematic pairing I recommend Spike Lee’s Blackkklansman). But if half the movie is ridiculousness it’s a tasteful, tender ridiculousness, and it spreads its sweet schmaltz on a hearty loaf of people trying to live their lives, through beauty and terror. Like Rosie’s introduction to Captain Klenzendorf, it knees hate right below the belt and slaps it in its gasping mouth, while being elegant and refined at every point.

*Contender for The Aven Tavishell nifty name award 2019